The Morning After
by Healer Kira
Summary: It's on bad days like this... that he thinks of the torture.


It's morning. I can always tell, even when it's still dark outside. Though I didn't take the alarm clock when I moved out here to the mansion, it's become almost a habit over the years to wake up early- Seven o'clock exactly, and every morning without fail.

I lay in the darkness for a few moments, until the rest of my body awakes and sends a jolt of fire through my torso. I groan, one hand going down to futilely rub at my hip. It's going to be a bad day. I can always tell.

I prop myself up on one forearm and switch on the light, blinking the sleep out of my eyes in the sudden brightness. I sit up, and lean back against the headboard, my legs and hip singing a quiet duet of pain. My arms and shoulders joined in a few beats later.

It's going to be one of those days, I just _know_ it.

I scramble clumsily out of bed and stand, stretching my arms over my head and yawning. The flooring is cold under my bare feet. I don't bother getting dressed, but instead slowly hobble down the stairs to the kitchen and put a pot of coffee on. I would need it.

Sitting down at the table, I lay my head on my arms and watch as a small glow of yellow slowly brightens on the horizon. My forearms ache.

Dr. Toadley had tried to tell me some sort of nonsense about it being the sign of some 'deadly disease', but I learned from the intern that it was actually severe damage to the muscles in my arms and calves. There were small tears in the tendons caused by a constant pull or strain; she said it could be permanent, or eventually heal on its own.

It would definitely need surgery at some point, and it would become only more painful, but I still decided to put it off. I didn't need such an expense added on along with the cost of new furniture, appliances, and basic repairs the mansion needed still; beside, the pain wasn't that bad. I could hold out.

The bright _ding _of the coffee machine makes me jump, and I can't help but smile a little. I pull a cup from my set of two from the cabinet and think of how the old coffee maker didn't ding. It just made coffee. It had a purpose, it served its purpose, and then it shut off until the next morning.

I walk through the dining room and foyer to outside, smiling at the stiff breeze that greets me as I shut the door. I ease down on the springy steps with a groan, and hold the warm cup to my face. The horizon is glowing like a bulb now. The sun will rise soon.

It's on bad days- like this one- I think of him.

He said he was sorry. And I know he truly is- Dimentio will never stop being sorry what he did to me. He will be haunted by it until the end of his games. He will never forget.

But unfortunately, neither will I.

I stretch my legs out and wince, but place my cup on the step below and stretch my arms above my head. It hurts, but it feels oddly good, in a way. I prop my elbows on the step above and behind me and look back at the horizon; it's almost time for the sun to rise.

A small line of dark clouds brewed over to the left side of the sky. It was probably going to storm today. Maybe I wouldn't be able to watch the sun rise after all...

It's on bad days- like this one- I think of that torture.

It still gives me nightmares. Not every night, like it used to, but still often. I'll see Dimentio standing, in his jester outfit and that awful mask, and the seed in his hand… and the hallucinations would rack my mind again, and the ropes would twist and dig, and it burned…. Sometimes I'd wake up and think I was back there because the sheets had somehow wrapped around my hands in the night.

As if compelled to, I look at my wrists. The scars stuck out, as grotesque as they always were when I look at them. It was often that I looked at them. They stuck out. They were a permanent reminder of what I couldn't forget.

It hurts to think about it.

But sometimes...

I think I almost like it.

It reminds me that the scars aren't just physical. Though there are scars on my body, there are also scars on my mind. And Dimentio...

It reminds me that Dimentio didn't completely clean- the real him, the human him, will also have the mental scars. Of torture. Of hurting another innocent being until he was completely broken and hopeless-

It reminds me that karma's got my back.

I can't help but grin at my last thought. Tearing my gaze from the scars, I look back up at the sky. The dark grey that had only been a threat minutes before had spread and it was clear that there would be a storm today.

But the sun had still risen. Golden orange and yellow rays brighten the blue sky and turn the nearby grey clouds to an almost cheerful purple.

Still yawning and grinning stupidly, I grab my cup and limp back inside to get dressed.

_OoOoO_

_I don't care if none of y'all got this far because you hated this so much, this is one of my favorite works. It could be the most awful thing to man, and I'd still love it, although if it is I'd like for someone to tell me, so I could fix it. _

_It's based off yelinna's (on deviantart, go check the site out and find this girl, she is amazing) comic, The Ultimate Show. Quick synopsis: A theory that he was totured to swallow the Floro seed, and it provides a lot of depth into Mario and Luigi's relationship, Dimentio's (possible) background, and what happened to Bluemiere and Timpani (as well as a whole lot of other characters) at the end of SPM. Go check it out._


End file.
